Dani was only six months old when he first arrived at our early childhood program. To say that his first six months of life had been difficult would be an understatement.
After the Department of Children and Families removed him from an unsafe home, Dani had already been moved from foster home to foster home several times. I didn’t know everything that had happened to him. I could only imagine. But there was one thing Dani made unmistakably clear:
He did not want to be held.
He wouldn’t allow any of us to comfort him. When an adult gently reached toward him or tried to pick him up, his tiny body would stiffen. He would pull away and desperately try to push us back.
Think about that for a moment. At six months old, Dani had somehow learned that being held by another human being was something to fear.
Every instinct in me wanted to scoop him up, hold him close and show him that he was loved. But Dani taught me that loving a child isn’t always about giving them the affection we want to give. Sometimes love begins by listening. As the song goes, “you can’t hurry love.”
So I stopped trying to get closer and started respecting the distance he needed.
When Dani became upset, I simply sat beside him. Sometimes I spoke softly. Other times we just sat there together in silence.
I wanted him to know:
I’m here. You’re safe with me. I’m not going anywhere. And you get to decide when you’re ready to come closer.
Day after day, I looked for small opportunities to bring warmth, predictability, and joy into our time together. Every morning, I greeted Dani with loving eye contact, a gentle smile and a soft, “I’m so happy to see you.” I got down on the floor and played beside him. I invited him to help me clean up toys. I sat next to him during meals.
Nothing extraordinary. Just hundreds of tiny moments that carried the same message:
You are safe. You matter. You have control. And I’m still here.
I never picked him up. I never asked him for a hug. I never forced him to accept my affection.
And slowly, things began to change.
Dani started smiling more. He began playing with the other children. He started walking. Talking. Trusting.
And then one day, something happened that I’ll never forget. Dani looked at me and reached his little arms toward me.
He wanted me to pick him up. He wanted a hug. A tight one.
So I picked him up and held him. And this time, his little body didn’t stiffen. It melted into mine.
For me, that moment captured something at the very heart of what it means to be a Playmaker.
We couldn’t erase what had happened to Dani. But we could surround him with new experiences - experiences of safety, love, joy, connection, and control - that began to teach his little body and brain something different about the world.
We created what we call an O’Playsis: a trusting, loving, empowering and joyful environment where healing doesn’t have to be forced. It can emerge naturally through relationships.
Dani stayed with us until he was about eighteen months old. During that time, his grandmother made the decision to give him a permanent home.
I’ve worked with thousands of children over the years, but Dani changed the way I think about caring for them. He taught me that love and affection come in many forms. Sometimes love is sitting quietly beside a frightened child. Sometimes love is respecting a child’s “no.” Sometimes love is showing up tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, without asking for anything in return.
Sometimes love means resisting every instinct you have to scoop a child into your arms.
And sometimes love is being there when that same child finally reaches out his arms and asks you to hold him.
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